Ringing Satan's Doorbell
by Penelope Grace
Summary: Instead of designing weapons for humanity, Satan keeps hearing a persistent call from the girl-next-door. Demons AU Tomione


**A/N: Fuck you all. Especially you, George. (Although. . . ;) XD XOXOXOXO 10 out of 10, I would say fuck me, too.) And! Especially the Discord server I recently joined. I haven't forgiven you guys either for tempting me. Special thanks to Kyoki777 for giving up her dibs to me so I can write this.**

 **And read the author's note at the end for more info.**

 **This is for George. 3**

 _I._

His fingers curl around the pen as he hears the persistent _call_ again. Grimacing, he pounds his forehead against the table as _once again_ , the young female neighbor next door, who moved into this apartment building last week, sends out endless waves of pure need like a cat in mating heat.

This is Asmodeus' job, not his. His bloody domain of sex and lust.

In the back of his mind, Satan wonders where Asmodeus even is. He would never turn down a willing young woman ringing the devil's doorbell unless his dick is already wet.

Perhaps he is among other women right now. And having a week-long orgy.

Still, this is ridiculous. A week-long series of masturbation by the woman next door. In the morning, she wakes up, slowly teases herself, and falls back asleep. He hates it whenever she tries for some lunchtime fun, because damn it, which is not an ironic statement at all, thank you very much. He has bigger bombs to build, military planes to design, and mortals and countries to utterly _destroy._ Then! That annoying chit dares to try for some more fun at midnight, right during the time he has always found his senses to be the calmest.

Fuck her.

The pen snaps into two in the forceful grip of his hand. The force of her lust, her wants, her needs, her _bloody call,_ mewls at him, begging sweetly.

If this continues, he really can't help what happens next. Fuck her. Damn her. His so-called infinite patience be shot.

"Bugger off, Hermione Granger," he says, under his breath. He raises his hand to his face. His legs tighten, and his head feels like splitting open. Seriously, why does her soul keep mewling and purring at him?

And where is even motherfucking Asmodeus?

This thing should better not be a joke. Otherwise, he is going to stuff him in the deepest level of hell where he would never find his way out.

His thoughts quickly disappear when another wave passes over. This time it is faster, vibrant, and seemingly heartstopping. It smells of dying leaves, the warm dirt of the earth, and the beginnings of a long, beautiful winter. It shouldn't call to him so much, yet. . .

It does.

 _II._

"Yo, brother," drawls Asmodeus, popping in all of the sudden and looking at Satan's hallway mirror and slicking up his blonde hair.

Satan's pen pauses over the sleek supersonic design that will perhaps find its way into the American Air Force. Wrinkling his nose, he questions, "Yo? Where did you learn that from?"

"California," he says, grinning broadly. He switches hands and slicks up the other side of his head. "The babes all love me."

He rolls his eyes. The only so-called babes who love him are desperate. And probably at the peak of their cycles.

"I know that look. See ya later, dude!" With that word, the demon turns and flies away.

Only ten seconds after the demon left, the call happens once again. The woman must be trying for an annoying afternoon session. Making a new record, his pen shatters into pieces within seconds as waves of lust rolls by.

Honestly. How can Asmodeus not feel this? He just left. Literally.

He swears, his hands already pulling at his dark hair. The next time he sees Asmodeus, Satan, one of the other six Princes of Hell, is going to rip him into pieces for not doing his job properly.

He sits at his desk, groaning and panting as the call continues without receiving an answer.

 _III._

"Satan," coughs Abaddon, his eyebrows twitching nervously. The Prince of Hell, demon of sloth, looks nervously at his older brother. "I wouldn't have come here if they didn't make me. . ."

"Well, I never realized that," Satan snarks, his black pen breaking once again. The fucking cunt of a neighbor is at _it_ yet again, but Abaddon seems completely oblivious. And he is almost as bad as Asmodeus in terms of pleasure. Well, at least better than Mammon, demon of greed. They would be in a big hurry to get to her. "It would have been so unlike you."

"Have you seen Asmodeus? He hasn't been seen for a week now."

"I wouldn't worry. He'll turn up eventually bragging about shagging twelve women and a couple of men in a few weeks." He shrugs, uncaring. He actually doubts Asmodeus will ever show up again, but perhaps the blonde demon might have enough brainpower to find himself out of a paper bag. Or to stop touching himself.

"Okay, will ask our brother."

"Wait."

Abaddon pauses, his wings poised.

"Do you hear anything?"

Abaddon's ears flick. He glances carefully at Satan and then tilts his head. "Water pipes?" He answers questioningly, clearly confused.

Satan's jaw twitches. "Get out."

The demon does not need any further invitation.

Once alone again, Satan takes out a new pen from his desk.

The next door neighbor seems bent on torturing him. The days of her period are the best days of the month. Beautiful days of no masturbation. Absolutely heavenly, or as close as he can get there anyway. He delighted in the amount of work he has finished, at first, and hoped for a few more days of her monthly stopping her from touching herself.

But no. . .

Then she starts up again, after two days of relief. Either she has short periods or she is _touching herself while on periods._ Fucking shit.

He looks mournfully at his fine pens. He will need to buy more packs. And he glances around at his apartment, taking note of the clutter and careful designs he made over the years. Then he glances at the floor, the broken pens scattered across the wooden boards.

Perhaps he needs to move. Far from here. Perhaps to the other ends of the earth.

Or if desperate enough, back to hell itself. His mother would not be pleased.

 _IV._

Hermione sighs as she throws her head back and feels the pure rush of pleasure coursing through her body. Removing her hand, she glances at the wall she shares with her extremely attractive neighbor. Hopefully, he didn't hear her. She is a little more careless this time.

Picking herself up from the bed, she turns on the bathwater. Something about her neighbor drives her crazy, with his long pianist fingers, fine lips, and silky-looking black hair. She has only ever seen him in a three piece suit or a black suit without tie, depending on the day of the week, but it accents his body _so_ nicely that when he walks pass by in the hall, she can't help but look back and glance down.

A really nice arse.

Third time today, she realizes, shaking her head. There must be something seriously wrong with her. Her hormones have always been running high to the point she can touch herself daily without feeling sick and bored of the motions, but three times in a day in three weeks in a row is too much for her.

But really, her imagination. . .

She looked him up before. The apartment directory lists him as Riddle, no first name given. Some quiet internet stalking of googling his address gave her his name.

Tom M. Riddle. 29 years old.

She shivers. The internet is a scary place. After googling him, she quickly finds herself. Hermione J. Granger, 25 years old.

One night of pure drinking liquor got her to search him up on Facebook and Twitter. No luck there. Searching him up on LinkedIn, on the other hand, got her somewhere. He works for a series of aerospace companies specializing in building military planes. He lived in France for a few years, and he has built quite an extensive list of experience since seventeen years old.

She would be lying if she said she wasn't turned on by what he did. Strange, so strange. But when she thinks of what he does, she thinks of chewing his pens and being fucked on his design boards. A particularly dirty dream had her muffling her screams in her pillow after picturing him smacking her arse with a plastic ruler over his lap.

It is so wrong. . . Engineers these days use computers and softwares to build new jets, the back of her mind whispers.

Shhhh, she thinks back. Imagination. Anything can happen.

 _V._

He could feel his brothers in the shadows murmuring to themselves about Abaddon's disappearance. It has been over two weeks, and none of his favorite whores has seen a single blonde hair of him.

Oh, well.

Not his problem.

He has more people to kill, things to do, planes to build, and a woman to tear apart. He honestly can't stand her, and he has no idea why he hasn't packed his bags and move to another country. Like United States. Maybe an entire ocean would be enough to stop him from _hearing_ her call.

A part of him, knowing where Asmodeus has gone, is tempted to answer. To respond. One last chance before moving to blasted dreary Seattle to work for that American defense contractor.

And once again, after dinner, he senses the waves of pleasure rolling over. Putting down his pen, he cracks his head around and then flies to her door. Knocking, he waits.

The pleasure lessens down, after some intense waves of lust. He bites back a smirk. So she tried to come before answering his call before giving up.

She deserves that.

She opens the door, dressed in a black hoodie and a towel wrapped around her legs. Her eyes quickly widen, and then she draws back her surprise and _is that desire_? "Um, hello." Her face wonderfully blushes, and water drips from her hair down to the floor.

"I heard you," he purrs.

 _VI._

" _I heard you."_

Those very words sends a shiver down her spine. Her legs jolt, and her cheeks redden even more. Casually, or as casually as she could, she asks, "You heard what?"

"You have been so naughty lately. . ." The very words sends a pulse to her nether regions. She backs up slowly, mesmerized as he follows her in. She barely noticed the front door closing on its own accord.

"I—" She gasps as he traps her between his body and the wall. "You heard me?"

He leans down, pausing in front of her eyes. "Every fucking time." His lips brushes against her jaw. "Ever since you moved in."His words purrs in her ears. "Every time you touched." Then his lips capture her.

She closes her eyes, breathing deeply. It seriously should not be turning her on so fucking much. She feels him sinking to his knees, his hands slipping downwards as he pushes up her hoodie with one hand and slips a finger alongside the inside of her thigh, discarding the towel wrapped around her waist. He doesn't touch her where she needs him the most.

Lifting one leg over his shoulder, he pauses before her glistening cunt clenching and unclenching for something _filling_. Hermione squirms under his inspection.

Then he licks alongside her folds, carefully avoiding her clit. Her thoughts of self-doubt erases, as her hands thread through his hair and his fingers easily slip into her hole. Scissoring his fingers, he is slow and unyielding.

She tries to push her hips to get him to touch her where she needs him the most, but he removes his hand and simply holds her tighter against the wall. He then sucks her clit, and her restrained moans and breaths turns into a shameless mewl.

"Please," she begs, feeling the pleasure build. His dark eyes stare chillingly at her as the spot between her legs aches so sweetly for him. "Please."

A flick of his finger and then a wet tongue licking at her pussy sends her flying over the edge. She grasps his hair even harder, her eyes shut tightly.

She barely noticed him carrying her to her bed, her body flushing in bliss. He sets her head on her pillow and then slowly slips off her hoodie. His eyes, once again, examine her closely, as if tracking every move, every reaction her body makes.

He whispers, "That one is free. This one." He pauses, parting her legs. "Is for torturing me since you have moved in."

And he laps up the juices sticking to the inside of her thigh. He carefully moves his fingers this way and that, testing each spot and curve and watching closely to her reaction. Kissing the spot between her legs, he brushes away the desperate hands _wanting to grip him, to pull_ him closer to her climax.

Hermione's hands squeeze her sheets, desperate to hold onto something as he languishly tortures her without a care in the world.

"Oh, please," she begs, her hips buckling to get closer. "Please, just please fuck me."

He completely ignores her request, casually curling his finger and watching as her eyes roll to the back of her head. Always reaching, but never receiving.

"Oh, God, please!"

He withdraws his hands and pulls away from her pussy. He holds her legs down, stopping her from pressing her legs together. "Stay," he orders. Then his hands remove themselves from her thighs.

She does not dare to move.

She hears a zipper being pulled and a belt unbuckling. Lifting her head, she tries to get a good look at him, but he's quickly on her, his face merely inches away and her legs open and exposed to him. His lean body, poised over her, is completely naked. She has never seen anyone move so fast. Her mouth parts, as anticipation sends her heart thumping.

Smirking, he says, "Let me tell you a little secret. There's no God here."

He angles himself at her entrance, easily sliding into her wet cunt. Her hand pulls at his shoulder, nails claw at his back, sinking into skin. Almost vengefully, he forcefully kisses her neck. He rolls his hips, eliciting a moan from her lips.

"Fuck," she breathes. "Oh, fuck!"

"Yes," he hisses, thrusting harder. He ups his speed and then slows to a lazy pace, choosing to torture rather than give. So she would know how he has felt for the last few _months_ thanks to her and her wandering fingers.

Every _damn_ time she gets close to what she desperately needs, the teasing bastard pulls back and watches her writhing for her release. He nibbles her peaked nipples, alternating his attentions to each. He plays around her folds, never quite touching her clit, and his cock remains in her, torturing her with its fullness and unmoving presence.

"No more," she gasps. Her walls clench hard around him, trying to reach her own pleasure. "Please."

He smirks. "Only if you promise me something. . ."

Overwhelmed by her passion, she doesn't fail him at all. "Anything," she chokes out.

Smirking against her neck, he moves his lips into a searing, fiery kiss of promise. The devil's promise of a deal made, of her untainted soul bound to his essence. Now this is _power_ , and the thrill of her life in his hands has him hardening quicker than a good battle in the unstable parts of the world.

"Next time you do this"—he flicks his thumb over her clit—"you _fucking"_ —he hisses into her ear—"call me over, you damn minx."

She cries out as he finally _moves_ , giving her the motions she needs. His speed, the force of his thrusts, and oh, the careful angle he gives. . . She comes undone quickly, her walls clenching around him and milking his cock. He unleashes his seed into her, spilling himself and slowly lowers his pacing as she passes out in pure euphoria.

Oh, the rush. . . It has been too long.

Still stubbornly in her, he closely examines the softness of her sleeping face. Shutting his eyes, he falls asleep next to her.

 **A/N: I had too much fun with this, lol. Tom/Satan is too dumb to realize that he needed a good shag. But we'll give him a break, cause he likes to make war instead of love. ;)**

 **So this thing is inspired by an image posted by Kyoki777. If you Google devil's doorbell and find the screenshot of a Facebook post, you will find it. It's really stupid, but I also found it to be hilarious. George didn't find the comedy in it. He made me super mad and frustrated while I was trying to get him to see it. . . XD**

 **For those on ao3 can find the ss here:**

 **I pictured Asmodeus, the demon of lust, as a Malfoy. Abaddon, demon of sloth, is a butt of a joke, and idk which Death Eater he is. If anyone got any ideas, leave a comment.**

 **If you like any of this, leave a comment. Or not. I judge you all by the fic stats.**

 **If I continue this, I can see Hermione as some kind of a succubus. Or a daughter of a fallen angel. Or daughter of an angel? Probably. Depends on how much I sink my brain into this stuff. Damn it. I hate you all.**

 **. . .**

 **And piss off! I can't believe I'm writing something like this again.**


End file.
